


Aliquot

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Quarry, Quickening, Quickening Tricks, quickening trouble, van de Graaff generator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacLeod has been taking an awful lot of challenges, and trying to protect Methos in the process.  Methos doesn't want that protection, and actually, he's more interested in trying to protect MacLeod. </p>
<p>One rainy night, to save MacLeod's life during a Challenge, Methos does something -- and the result is going to end up killing him.  Except MacLeod can't see what's happening, he's blinded by it. </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <i>White hot anger burned through his limbs and his core, and he was awash in determination.  “Heal faster,” Methos gritted out and he felt as if by his determination alone he could control the world.   Methos slapped his outstretched hand down in the water around him, smacking the surface, driving his determination outward, conducting it forward. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Methos watched the Quickening surround MacLeod, the rage of the storm around them mixing in with the furious intensity of energy finding a new vessel--until only MacLeod was dimly visible in the center of his vision and then there was nothing.<br/></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aliquot

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in 2003.

It was like clockwork; he could set his watch by it.

One minute, he and MacLeod were amiably walking through the heavily rain slicked streets, headed back to the loft after a raucous evening at Joe’s, and the next minute they were both reminded remorselessly that their existences were governed by the Game.

“One more inch, Mac, and we could go down the street in a canoe,” Methos finished just as the discordant swarm of bees crawled over his spine, announcing the presence of another Immortal nearby. It never failed. Had it even been a full week since the last challenger? Did MacLeod take out ads in the newspaper announcing his availability?

“Who’s there?” MacLeod called out, scanning the dark shadows of the empty alley. Except for the rain pattering down all was silence. Methos didn’t miss the way that MacLeod altered his balance, moving his body slightly into a protective position, and whether he had done it consciously or not, it caused a flicker of irritation. 

A sudden pain bloomed in Methos’ chest and he took a half step back, his hands coming up to clasp at the dagger handle now protruding from his chest. At least the unknown Immortal wasn’t a perfect throw, Methos thought. The dagger had missed his heart, but it had hit a lung. Methos struggled to breathe, dropped to the wet street with a splash and was soaked to the skin instantly. 

“Let’s take the student out of the equation, shall we?” A dark man emerged from the shadows, his blade glittering deadly in the scant street lighting.

MacLeod had crouched down beside Methos and roughly jerked the dagger out, but now he dropped it to the ground. He spared a moment to glance at Methos, a look full of anger and concern, before coming to his full height and positioning his katana in front of himself. Protective again, Methos thought, but this time he didn’t mind because his lung was still collapsed and the only sound he could make was that of a sloppy, bloody rasp. The dagger wound was serious, but he shouldn’t die before it healed, and he was grateful that he could at least witness the challenge, instead of dropping insensate.

“Duncan MacLeod,” MacLeod announced, bringing the katana up slightly.

The other man approached, his dark eyes shining, and raised his own weapon, a practical, if unadorned, cavalry sword. “Jacob Degan.”

Jacob Degan was very good. The heavy rain worked to neither his nor MacLeod’s advantage, but it didn’t hinder them either. Degan moved with a deadly grace over the slick street that was a mirror to MacLeod’s own poetry of motion, and the fight became one of calculated risks and internal timing, anticipation. The rain started to come down harder, sheets of water falling from the sky, and both combatants were thoroughly drenched, their clothes clinging to their forms, rented and torn, mute testimony to the deadly earnest being played out.

Then Degan was moving fluidly to the side, a practiced glint in his eye, and Methos wanted to cry out a warning, but only blood bubbled to his lips, and MacLeod stepped into a deliberately orchestrated trap. But MacLeod’s reflexes were honed and his intuition keen, and a flash later, the beheading stroke was avoided, although it had caused serious damage. MacLeod was bleeding heavily from a terrible gash to his side, and he was sagging, with one hand to the brick of the building and the other to his side while Degan executed an elegant turn and stalked forward again to take advantage.

No! Methos tried to scrabble forward, desperate to interfere, but although he was conscious, he’d been bleeding out and his arms and legs didn’t seem to want to obey his will. Damn the Highlander, he thought. Damn him for being high profile, for attracting challengers like moths to the moon, for taking on everyone with a length of sharpened steel. I’m not a student, Methos wanted to shout, and direct Degan’s attention anywhere but on MacLeod, but nothing came out except a wet sound lost to the droning rain.

Degan had paused a safe distance away, studying the situation and determining if the injury was trick or true.

Methos could see that MacLeod’s wound was very serious, indeed it was probably only MacLeod’s iron strength that kept him standing, and it would only take Degan a moment more to move in for decisive victory. MacLeod’s gaze flicked to Methos then, and he could read the regret there and suddenly there wasn’t enough room in Methos’ soul for any more regrets. White hot anger burned through his limbs and his core, and he was awash in determination. “Heal fucking faster,” Methos gritted out and he felt as if by his determination alone he could control the world. MacLeod’s wound was nothing. Degan was nothing. The elemental torrent was nothing. Methos slapped his outstretched hand down in the water around him, smacking the surface, driving his determination outward, conducting it forward. 

And Degan had hesitated a moment too long to make his decision because MacLeod’s hand was coming away from his side, that feral glint was back in his eyes, and he pressed his disadvantage into advantage. A flurry of movement later and Degan’s head was rolling away.

Methos, floating in an odd swath of detachment and fatigue, watched the Quickening surround MacLeod, the rage of the storm around them mixing in with the furious intensity of energy finding a new vessel. His lung wound wasn’t healing like he had expected and Methos found that his vision was blacking around the edges, until only MacLeod was dimly visible in the center of his vision and then there was nothing.

~~~

Duncan climbed to his feet, feeling the tumult and conflict of utter exhaustion and complete exhilaration. He would either sleep for a week or run a hundred miles. He pressed his hand to the area of skin that had held a fatal wound, wondered for the briefest moment over the vagaries of Immortal healing, and then forgot all about it when he realized that Methos was a crumpled form in the street. 

Duncan stumbled forward, going to his knees, and gently rolled Methos over and out of the rain gutter. The front of his sweater was diluted pink, his entire body was chilled from lying in the cold water, and Methos’ eyes stared blankly up at him. Duncan cradled the form to himself, desperately glad that it had been him and not Methos that Jacob Degan had been determined to challenge. Duncan ran a hand over Methos’ hair, slicking it back, and Duncan had to smile. Even in death, Methos was beautiful and soon he’d revive, which made Duncan’s heart leap in joy. Other parts of him leaped a little too, since the Quickening was ricocheting around his insides.

Methos dragged in a deep breath and life returned to the empty eyes. He reached up long fingers to curl around Duncan’s neck. “Taught him a lesson he won’t soon forget?”

“You know it,” Duncan replied and he couldn’t quite hide the relief he felt. It had been so close, and this reunion had almost been lost. “It was touch and go there for a while.”

“I saw.”

“I know,” Duncan whispered huskily. He remembered that moment when he had been slashed to the bone and beyond, vulnerable in a way he’d never been before, and he’d looked for Methos, for one last look to try and explain how sorry he was, that he’d been wrong, and instead had seen intent and fury that had somehow carried him past the immobility of his body. Duncan bent down, Methos moved up, and they were kissing in the rain, the heady scent of the storm and the sweet taste of rainwater mixed with everything he loved about the taste of Methos and he could feel the residual desperation dissipate until there was nothing left in him but desire. He pulled Methos to his feet, never releasing the other man’s mouth, because this was what it felt to be alive and connected. Reluctantly, he pulled away a moment later. “Don’t move.” Duncan turned away and set to taking care of the body and head. 

Minutes later, he returned, and Methos was standing there in the soaking rain, watching him with luminous eyes, and there was no thought to it, because then they were kissing again and Duncan couldn’t even remember crossing the street, it seemed he had always been with Methos and always would be. Methos never hesitated, never stopped responding, and somehow they found their way into the dojo, discarding drenched clothes along the way to the loft and the soft bed that waited there for them.

~~~ 

“Ummm,” Methos moaned, wiggling in closer to the warm body next to him, and wishing that morning hadn’t come so soon. A strong arm wrapped itself around his waist, tightening momentarily and then releasing to just rest there.

It had been a long night, and Methos felt comfortable and happy, and peaceful in a way that he rarely experienced. It would be all right with him if they just stayed in bed like this forever.

Then, MacLeod began to nibble at his earlobe, scraping teeth and tongue. “Morning,” he whispered, stroking down Methos’ side. “Feel like some breakfast?”

“Like what?” Methos replied, still slightly sleepy, but enjoying the attention while in his half-dreaming state.

“Waffles. Omelets. Sausages. Something else?” MacLeod suggested, his tone implying exactly what he thought breakfast should consist of.

“Sounds tempting,” Methos impishly admitted. “Where do you want to go for this feast?”

“I know a nice little diner. Very close by. Very good, personal service.” MacLeod rolled on top of Methos and began to feather light kisses over Methos’ collarbones. His fingers slid up to tickle Methos’ sides. “Excellent ribs.” 

Methos laughed and MacLeod beamed at him before running a finger down the bridge of Methos’ nose to rest lightly on his lips.

“All mine,” he whispered. “I’ll never let anyone take you from me.”

Methos frowned, thinking of last night and remembering how MacLeod had stepped forward protectively. He supposed now was as good a time as any; MacLeod was in a good mood. “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“About what?”

“That thing you did, stepping in front of me last night.”

MacLeod frowned. “Didn’t help you, did it? Still got a dagger in the chest.” The tone of his voice implied that somehow that had been a failure on his part.

“Not the point. We’re equals, Mac. We protect each other, back each other up. You don’t get to fight every single Immortal that comes along.”

“I don’t fight every single one.”

Methos raised an eyebrow. He began to tick off on his fingers. “Last night. Last weekend, when that crazy urban punk showed up.”

“He was just a kid!” Duncan protested. 

“And he wanted your head!” Methos went back to counting. “Two weeks ago, when you dispatched that German fellow and the week before that when the blonde ploughboy came after you.” He thought for a moment. “And at the beginning of the month there was that little mess you had dating back from the turn of the century.”

“He was a menace. He had to be stopped,” Duncan said darkly.

“Ah.” Methos stopped counting. He could go back another month, two or even three. Like clockwork. Too many Immortals were crawling out of the woodwork, searching for the infamous Duncan MacLeod, so many young ones craving the Quickening of a powerful player in the Game and too many old ones who also dropped onto their doorstep, having cultivated a taste for the heady, intoxicating challenge of someone who wasn’t green, but a worthy opponent. Too many old troubles were rearing their ugly heads. Methos shivered. Disaster had been a moment’s hesitation away. It was a matter of time – last night had been too close. “We should move away.” 

“I’m not going to run and hide.” Duncan’s voice was resolute and Methos knew there would be no convincing him on this point. And perhaps it didn’t really matter. Challengers seemed to find him wherever he went. Seacouver or Paris or New York City. But something would have to be done, because the constant fighting was wearing and draining. Every time someone stepped from the shadows, even without a dagger to the chest, Methos felt like a hand was squeezing his heart, crushing the breath out of him. Deep within him, he felt the tiny flare of determination, a residue from the night before, not quite banked, and it was an eternal pilot light now that burned inside him. 

“Methos?” MacLeod asked.

“Then we’ll fight,” Methos said. “But together.” He let his determination show on his face, his absolute resoluteness in this matter. If this was the way it had to be, then so be it – and beware to anyone that tried to take his Highlander from him because they would face an unmovable object.

MacLeod grinned. “Together sounds good.” His hands started their slow dance up Methos’ skin again. “But after breakfast.”

~~~ 

Damn! Another one. 

Duncan took a deep breath and retrieved his katana from the deep folds of his duster. He caught a look from Methos and knew the man was not happy. He’d promised not to be singularly protective of him, but it went against every fiber in his being that demanded that he protect his own. And Methos was his own, to protect and to love and to care for. So, he had agreed to not overtly protecting him, but protect him he would.

He wanted to retch every time he thought of that night over a week ago when Jacob Degan had almost taken his head, because if that had happened, then Methos would have been an easy kill, lying dead in the street, and although Duncan had made peace with the knowledge that he might die someday, he would not make peace with the knowledge that Methos would. Methos had lived for too long and seen too much, and was too precious to not continue to survive. So, Duncan knew, it was to be his initiative to take on any challengers and they would have to go through him first. The line was drawn in the sand.

“Duncan MacLeod,” he called out before Methos could respond and take the challenge.

“Nato Zosimov.” The man was a giant. He had to be close to seven feet tall, and built like the engine of a train, all bulk and solidness.

“MacLeod!” Methos whispered hoarsely, warning and anger in his voice.

Duncan gave his head a quick shake. It couldn’t be helped. Methos could be mad at him later, berate him to the heavens, but at least he’d be alive to castigate him.

Zosimov was strong, and although it was clear that he trained, he still relied too much on his muscle. Duncan usually felt alert and heightened when he fought, but this time he felt more so than he ever had before. He felt right, strong, and sure. Movement had never been easier, faster. His anticipation of his opponent had never been keener, more accurate. Zosimov could have been twice the size and Duncan felt as if he could have taken him on. It was not much of a drawn out fight, although it took a little while for Duncan to find the slight miss he needed to slip in past the strength, and in the end it was Zosimov’s head that was parted from the rest of him. Before the Quickening hit, as the ghostly white energy began to swirl around him, Duncan searched for Methos, found his eyes and saw there the same strange look he’d seen the last time he’d taken a Challenge, but then the world turned to exploding energy all around him and he knew nothing for a few minutes.

When he regained his composure, Methos was next to him, soothing him with words and light touches. Duncan looked to his lover, and wondered again at the magnificent beauty that was there. He reached up to touch soft hair, softer than dandelion down, and to look into concerned eyes that were dark like peat. Everything about Methos was perfectly drawn lines, matching tones, and concordance. He leaned forward to catch Methos’ mouth with his own, which tasted again of rainwater and reminded him of the scent of an apple orchard right after a downpour, and suddenly there was nothing in the world but desire.

“Come on.” Methos pulled back slightly, but his breath was hitched and expressive, raw desire there also. “We need to get inside to do this properly.”

Duncan nodded; he would follow this man anywhere. 

~~~ 

 

Methos unglued one eye and looked about. MacLeod wasn’t in the loft – he’d probably gone out running. Methos rubbed at the other eye and was able to get it open. He had slept like the dead, exhausted beyond belief. Between MacLeod’s attentions – and here Methos smiled happily to himself – and the other thing….

He shied away from that for a moment. He was hungry, famished; he should get something to eat. Methos climbed out of bed and pulled on rumpled clothing from the floor where it had been tossed the previous evening. He ambled over to the kitchen, pulling open cupboard after cupboard. Everything had to be prepared. MacLeod didn’t believe in the necessity and ease of convenience food. He’d have to go out if he wanted something made for him.

Methos left a quick note and took off for Joe’s.

It was afternoon already. How long had he slept? Methos decided he didn’t want to figure it out. He hadn’t slept enough, as far as he was concerned, since he was still tired. He’d have stayed in bed even longer, if his stomach wasn’t quite so insistent on being filled.

He entered Joe’s and sought out a place at the bar. The remaining lunch crowd was thin, and Methos glanced at the clock. Two in the afternoon. He had slept late.

“Hey, Adam,” Joe called from the other end and came over to pull a beer for him. “Where’s Mac?”

Methos shrugged. “The usual. Running until he makes himself sick. He’ll be along.” He tapped a finger on the bar menu. “Kitchen still open?”

“Sure,” Joe answered. “Anything you want. You look like you could use it. Doesn’t Mac feed you anymore?”

Methos frowned, scanned the menu quickly, and ordered. A double cheeseburger with chili fries sounded just right, and with an extra pickle. When Joe had gone, Methos looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. He studied his face, his cheekbones, and shoulders. Then he looked down at his hands, turning them over and inspecting them carefully. He was used to this body, and it didn’t change much. But he had to admit that he was looking a little haggard, slightly thinner than usual and certainly dullish. His hands were a bas relief of veins and tendons. His hair was limp and he decided that perhaps it was time he cut it short and started spiking it again; he usually looked a lot older when it was short like that. 

The food came then and Methos practically inhaled it. When he was done, he was still hungry and ordered the same thing again. He tapped his fingers absently on the bar as he waited for his second round of lunch.

He knew why he was tired and hungry. He just didn’t want to admit it.

Last night he’d seen the incredible, daunting size of Mac’s opponent and that strange flame of determination had flared into a conflagration within him. It had blotted out everything. There had been no ground, no air, no sky. There had been only MacLeod and the deadly arc of his katana. And Methos had pushed. Just a little.

It had been easier to do this time, as filled as he had been with his firmness of purpose; it had been just as simple to fill MacLeod with the strength he had harbored all his life, to burn that fuel that he had hoarded. He had so much, what did it matter if he spent a little?

Methos closed his eyes, comforted by the familiar surroundings. He’d been so angry when MacLeod had answered the challenge, no pause and no thought in his compunction. There was a challenge and he would answer it. He would do it every time, Methos knew. Mac would step up, jump head first into every challenge, and Methos had felt the reason why. Protection. Damn him. Well, it was their fight now – even if Mac insisted on calling his name out first. MacLeod need never fight alone again, and he never would as long as Methos was there. 

The familiar sensation of chords struck in his head, and a moment later MacLeod bounded into the bar. He took a seat next to Methos and started eating off the second set of fries. “Finally got up, did you?” he teased.

Methos smiled back. “I take orders from my stomach. Did you have a nice run?”

MacLeod nodded and stole another fry. “Incredible. Ten miles. I went eight before I even started to breathe hard. I feel like I could take on the entire world today.” He waved down the bar to Joe. “Come on, Adam, let’s get out of here. It’s a gorgeous day. The park is open. We haven’t been to the zoo in ages. We could go down to the waterfront and get some shopping done. There’s a new gallery opening in the Heights.”

Methos took a last sip of beer, feeling infected by MacLeod’s enthusiasm. He could sleep when he was dead. “Lead on, then.”

~~~ 

Duncan skimmed his hands languorously down the lustrous skin of his lover. They’d finished making love, and were now lying in a tumble on the bed, sheets twisted every which way.

Methos was sleeping. His mouth was parted open just slightly, showing white teeth, and looking for all the world like an invitation to debauchery. But Duncan stilled himself. He still felt overwhelmed with energy, the result of yet another Quickening, and could have made love until the dawn, but he’d eventually worn out Methos. 

Now it was the quiet hours just before sunrise, when the world was dark and blue, and there was magic in the air. And beauty, too, Duncan thought as he looked at his love. In the deep blue light of pre-dawn, Methos’ skin practically glowed; it was the color of pearls, as unblemished and opalescent as the inside of an oyster shell. He ran his hands down Methos’ side again and to his flank, feeling the taut muscles, admiring the definition, grace, and strength hidden there. Duncan ran his hand over Methos’ head, stroking the fine, soft hair. Then he brushed his fingers lightly over Methos’ fingers, and marveled at how those hands could look both capable and delicate at the same time. He curled close to Methos, breathing in his scent, and was reminded once again of rainwater, fresh and clear, and the crispness of morning dew, and something else. Unnamed, it nagged at him for a moment, and he let it go when it would not come.

Duncan wished that Methos were not sleeping so he could see his eyes, those wondrous eyes of his. He shivered, remembering how Methos had looked at him this last time as he had taken this challenge. Pissed off. Then he remembered how relieved Methos had looked, when yet another challenger was dead at his feet. There had been an easing there, and Duncan was sure he’d never seen anything as perfect as the picture Methos presented at that moment. Dark hair against alabaster skin and incandescent eyes the color of an autumn forest.

Oh, he silently promised again for the thousandth time, I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you with me. I’ll protect you till my last breath. 

~~~ 

“Jeez, you look like shit,” Joe commented dryly upon seeing his two charges walk through the door of his bar. 

MacLeod looked startled, and glanced at Methos, studying him for a moment before shrugging. Methos just looked away. “Lunch, Joe,” Mac called and they both settled into a back booth.

Joe rubbed at his chin, and studied the two men. MacLeod looked every bit his Immortal self. The man practically glowed and he was exuding so much charm that even his staid old kitchen staff was peeking from the back to glimpse a man they saw practically every day. Something was certainly agreeing with Mac. Joe wondered if it was all the Quickenings Mac had taken lately. He’d been averaging about one a week now for a while, sometimes two a week. And there’d been yet another one last night, actually two Immortals who had challenged MacLeod. He’d just finished reading the report and filing it. 

Immortal Korsai Ney and his Immortal wife, Jacinth Ney, had reportedly ambushed Immortal MacLeod just outside the dojo. Mac was alone, on his way home. Immortal Adam Pierson, current student of Immortal MacLeod, was counted as being present in the domicile and unaware of the exterior proceedings until after the first Quickening. 

Joe rubbed at his jaw line and considered just how Methos had probably reacted to a sudden Quickening going on outside the loft windows. He’d half suspected that Methos would have come to a window with an uzi and mowed down the competition, although it hadn’t happened that way.

MacLeod had taken down Korsai in a fight that had lasted approximately six and one half minutes. Absently, Joe had wondered why they ever bothered to time the Challenges. The times had been plotted, standardized, re-plotted, chi-squared, and plotted again and they never meant anything.

Jacinth Ney had come in for the kill as soon as the Quickening was over. It was reported, and Joe didn’t doubt it, that she was upset, practically hysterical, at that point. It was noted that the Neys had been married for approximately one hundred and seventy five years. 

That’s a long time to love and lose, Joe thought. He refocused his attention on the two men in his bar just for a moment, his intuition and his eyesight in tandem agreement that something wasn’t right with the world, before considering again the report he had just finished signing off on.

Pierson had exited the domicile and was able to engage Jacinth Ney previous to her unchallenged assault on MacLeod. No official challenge had been called and three minutes into the fight, Jacinth Ney stabbed Immortal Pierson through the lower abdomen and effectively disabled him, although it was noted that Pierson did not die from this wound. At this point, she turned from Pierson, and addressed MacLeod, who was then back to his feet. A formal challenge was issued and approximately four minutes and forty-five seconds later, MacLeod beheaded Ney and received her Quickening.

MacLeod cleared the area of evidence and brought his student into the domicile. No further details were entered for the rest of the night.

What a rotten way to live, Joe thought. 

He scrutinized MacLeod again, noting the vibrancy of the man. Yeah, those Quickenings sure were agreeing with him.

Methos was a different story. The man was becoming skin and bones, nothing but a gauntness that reminded Joe of dried out cornhusks. His clothes practically hung on his frame and he looked like a stiff wind might blow him away. Joe knew that he was eating; he came in practically every day with Mac and usually devoured two plates of sandwiches and fries, or onion rings, and sometimes extra chicken wings. But still, he looked terrible. His hair was nothing but a hank of indeterminate color, his eyes were lackluster and dull, and his skin was the color of an earthworm left to die in a puddle. Large dark circles ringed under his eyes, which were usually closed because the man was practically asleep on his feet.

It was a good thing that Mac was around, because Joe doubted Methos could take a challenger in this condition. No wonder a relative youngster like Jacinth Ney had disarmed him. He’d been lucky that she’d been fixated on revenging her husband’s death. 

But what had happened and why didn’t Mac do something about it? 

After their first run through on the meal, Mac came up to the counter. “Hit us again, Joe. Adam says he’s still hungry.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how he keeps eating all that junk and not gaining any weight.”

“You’re telling me?” Joe asked, incredulous. “He can barely keep what he’s got on him as it is. I think you should make sure you’re feeding him a full three meals.”

Mac frowned, slight confusion coloring his features. He looked over to the table. Methos had curled up on the seat of the booth. “He’s just tired. We had a busy night,” he obliquely referenced the previous evening’s activities and then he grinned, referencing something else. “We burn a lot of calories.”

“Yeah, well, make sure you replace them for dinner and breakfast too,” Joe replied grumpily. MacLeod seemed really oblivious, and it seemed to be deliberate. He turned to go put the second order in, although he suspected that the kitchen staff had already anticipated the request. Behind him he heard someone speaking in a loud voice and he turned to root out the trouble.

“Hey, man!” A burly man was barking at Methos, who had barely raised his head. “You get your shit ass out of here. Damn, fucking heroin user. I’ll call the cops on you, shithead.”

Mac was already across the room, one hand on the aggressor’s arm. “Whatever your problem is, you can solve it somewhere else,” he said in a voice as cold as ice.

“Fuck you,” the man said hoarsely. “You let him do it. Some friend you are.” He tried to shake his arm out of Mac’s grip. “You think the rest of us don’t see what this is? You think we’re stupid? I don’t need my car or my home broken into because this diseased son of a bitch needs his smack.” He shook his arm again. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

Mac let go, but placed himself in front of Methos, who was still groggily trying to get to his feet. Gesturing, the man swiped his hand in front of him in a go-to-hell statement. 

“He’ll infect you too,” the man warned and strode out of the bar.

Joe watched as Mac spent a minute soothing an obviously confused Methos, which only served to truly convince Joe that Mac was turning a blind eye to what was right in front of him. Then Methos was slouching in the seat, with his head thrown back, and eyes closed.

Mac approached Joe at the bar, his anger still evident on his face and in his voice. “Do you know who that was?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “John Lancaster. He’s a regular. Mac –“

“Joe?”

“John’s son was a heroin junkie. He caught AIDS from an infected needle and died last year.”

“I’m sorry,” Mac said, empathy and understanding creeping into his voice, although anger still dominated.

“John’s not a bad man, he’s just a little upset. He sees Adam and thinks the worst.” Joe watched as the words hit MacLeod.

“Sees Adam--? What are you talking about?” Mac leaned on the bar.

Something wasn’t right. Joe suddenly wondered if Mac’s myopia wasn’t as deliberate as he’d thought. Joe looked over at Methos. “How does Adam look to you, Mac?”

Mac turned to look. He tilted his head to the side slightly, studying the man in the booth. He turned back to Joe. “He looks fine.”

“Fine?” Joe asked incredulously. “The man looks like a walking corpse.”

Mac cleared his throat.

“You know what I mean, dammit.” Joe blew out a frustrated breath. “He looks like shit. He looks like he’s starving. He looks like he can barely hold himself upright.”

“Joe, that’s nonsense. Are we looking at the same person? He looks fine. Maybe he’s been eating too much, but otherwise, he’s in the best shape I’ve ever seen him.”

“What?” Joe stared at his friend. Something definitely was not right here at all. Perhaps they weren’t looking at the same person, after all. “Hold on.” He rummaged around under the bar and came up with his Polaroid camera, used to take pictures of offending patrons in a pinch. He took aim and snapped a picture of Methos. The film came out of the camera and Joe slapped it down on the bar. “Three minutes.”

“Joe, what’s that going to prove?”

“Give it a try. At least this way I can be sure we’re looking at the same thing.”

When the three minutes were over, Joe pulled off the chemical sheet and laid the photograph on the top of the bar. He didn’t see anything different. It showed a sickly Methos taking a nap in his bar.

But MacLeod’s reaction was almost instantaneous. He grabbed the picture. “How’d you--” His attention went from the picture to Methos and back again, a ping pong game in full throttle. “What the hell is this?”

Joe tapped the photo. “I see that when I look at Adam.”

Mac looked up again, the photo clutched in his hand, crumpled. “I don’t.”

~~~ 

Duncan looked at the pictures again. 

He and Joe had used up all the film in the camera, determining that it was only Methos that Duncan couldn’t see straight, and Duncan had almost run out to get more film, but that would have meant leaving Methos unprotected and if the pictures were the truth and his own eyes were lying to him, then he couldn’t leave Methos for a moment.

He looked at the pictures again. Methos. Looking ill and worn and tired, and practically dead. His skin was ashen, grey, and stretched too tight around his bones. 

He looked at Methos now, the one sleeping in his bed, utterly still. Even moving during sleep was too much energy to expend. But he looked fine, perfectly healthy. 

Duncan rubbed at his eyes, pressing against them and releasing. He waited until the spots faded and looked again. His own sight still betrayed him. 

When he looked at Methos he saw everything. He saw perfect love and utter trust. Methos practically shone with it. When he touched that soft skin, he felt harmony and comfort. When he kissed that delicious mouth and held Methos in his arms, he felt respite and refreshment. When he looked into Methos’ eyes he saw honesty and affection, and the same physical desire that he felt himself.

Duncan felt his gut clench. Oh, no. Please, no. 

Nauseous, he looked at the pictures again. How could this be? He thought he’d been making love to someone in the peak of health, an Immortal -- they didn’t get sick. But that wasn’t the way it had been. Had he been hurting Methos all this time? Why hadn’t Methos said anything? He should have noticed that his normally snarky lover had become taciturn and unresponsive. He should have realized that something was wrong, something was off.

Duncan walked slowly over to the bed and ran a shaky hand down one arm that had escaped the covers. It felt fine, filled out and strong, muscular and lean. It looked fine, flushed slightly pink, and smooth.

“What’s happened? Do you know, Methos? What have you done?” Duncan whispered. Methos hadn’t been exactly coherent on the trip home from the bar and Duncan wondered exactly how long this illusion would have gone on for him, would he have ever seen past the hallucination façade? Would Methos have died in his arms and he gone on thinking that Methos was napping….

Duncan would have gone for the Scotch cabinet then, but if nothing else, he needed his wits about him.

A while later, Duncan began to notice that the sky outside had started to warm at the edges. Morning was breaking. Duncan felt his frustration on the verge of breaking, too. He’d been dealing with this for practically the entire night, and was unable to come to any conclusions. Things just ran around in his head, jumbling together. He kept leaping from one thought to the next, but always unable to connect the dots. 

Duncan laid the back of his hand on Methos’ forehead, as if checking for a temperature on a mortal, but he knew he couldn’t trust his own personal observations. To him it looked like Methos was sleeping peacefully, a beatific cast to his features.

He was waiting, he knew. Waiting for Methos to wake and say something, anything about what was going on. Surely Methos had noticed that he’d been changing, becoming weaker. Why hadn’t the man said anything at all?

Because you insist on protecting him, he thought. Because if he ever even admitted to any weakness, you would have coddled him and suffocated him. 

Duncan heard the loft elevator engage and a minute later Joe arrived, bearing a bag of bagels in one hand and a new supply of film in the other. 

Duncan ignored the bagels. He wasn’t hungry. He grabbed the film and loaded it into the camera, taking a photo of Methos sleeping peacefully in the bed. He slapped the film down on the counter, impatient for the developing time to pass.

“You been up all night, Mac?” Joe asked as he split a bagel open for himself.

“Yeah,” Duncan answered, checking his watch again. 

“Maybe you want to get a little shut eye? I can watch Methos. I promise I’ll wake you as soon as he stirs.”

“I’m not tired.” The minute hand had finally made its first sweep. Two minutes to go.

Joe made a harrumphing noise and continued to make breakfast. “If you say so.”

“I say so,” Duncan countered. He knew Joe was trying to be helpful, and it wasn’t stubbornness on his part; he really wasn’t tired at all. 

“Fine.” Joe turned on the faucet in the kitchen. “I’m making coffee,” he announced.

Duncan glanced at the sleeping form in his bed, hearing Joe running the water cold in the background. He would need sleep soon, he supposed, but he wasn’t tired, just stressed and worried. But Methos was constantly exhausted. He frowned, trying to catch the quicksilver thought as it streamed away. Actually, he’d felt unusually energized lately, almost manic, he realized. He’d augmented his workouts with additional exercises, he’d run further and faster than ever before, his stamina had doubled. He put his hand to his side, the deadly gash long gone but not forgotten. His ability to heal had increased. 

One minute to go.

While Methos had been failing, under his watch, and he’d been unable to see it. 

“Mac?” Joe asked, butter knife suspended in mid-air. “You look like you’ve just thought of something.”

“I almost had it,” Duncan whispered. He rubbed his head, but his thoughts were scattered again. “Coffee, you said?”

“Right.” Joe finished pouring the water into the top of the machine and then reached to plug the cord in. “You know, Mac, I’ve been trying to--” There was a sharp snap and Joe dropped the plug, giving a strangled yelp.

“Joe!” Duncan rushed over. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Joe reassured hastily. “I was holding onto the rubber part. Damn thing. I think your coffee maker is busted, though.”

Duncan picked up the end of the cord and studied the metal prongs, but nothing seemed to be unusual. “No coffee,” he stated and then caught the whiff of a scent. He half turned, and sniffed again. “Do you smell--”

Joe made a face. “Yeah. Electrical charge.”

“Ozone,” Duncan whispered aloud--the smell of a storm about to break, of rain about to fall, and of a Quickening released. And he remembered. Kissing Methos in the rain, every time he’d kissed Methos since, and that nagging scent that he should have been able to recognize all along and hadn’t.

“What?” Joe asked, not understanding.

Duncan waved a hand, eyes falling on the unopened photo. He ripped away the chemical sheet, his senses heightened to the piquant development chemicals, and stared at the image before him. Methos withering to nothing, fading away, and nothing like the view he beheld when he looked with his own eyes. 

He stalked forward, almost grasping everything, needing to test his theory. He sat on the bed beside Methos and leaned over, gently pressing a kiss to the desired mouth, before pulling away and taking a deep breath. 

“What is it?” Joe was advancing on him.

Duncan placed his fingers to his own lips, the exotic taste still lingering on his palate. “Ozone,” he whispered, now he had a name to go with the enthralling mixture of scents and tastes that caused desire to burn through him.

“I got that. But what does it mean?” Joe’s voice grew louder. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Duncan ran his hand over Methos’ hair, brushing stray strands away from his face, and lightly traced the curl of one ear. “I think he’s given me his Quickening.”

“Try that again, buddy, because from where I’m standing his head is exactly where it belongs.” Joe began to move forward again, agitated. 

“It’s the only thing that makes any sense.” Duncan held one hand lightly over Methos’ chest, watching the steady rhythm, and wondered if what he was seeing was real, and hoping it was and that it wasn’t too late. “Quickenings are energy and power and knowledge, Joe.” He emphasized the next word. “Electricity.”

“I’m with you so far. But you can’t take someone’s Quickening without taking their head. How do you figure this happened?”

“I don’t,” Duncan answered roughly. “It just feels right. The question is how to stop it, how to reverse it.”

Joe rubbed his beard and glanced back at the coffee pot. He rubbed his fingers together. “Interrupt the current.” He nodded to himself. “If you’re right and this is some kind of electrical thing then treat it like electricity.”

“But how?” Duncan realized that his hand had settled on Methos’ chest, making contact, keeping a connection, eradicating all distance and resistance. The faint scent of ozone still hung in the air, a trace of it on his tongue. He yanked his hand away as if he’d been burned. It was all about electricity. Somehow, he and Methos had created a circuit and Methos was the battery, giving and giving, being drained. He bolted across the room, creating more distance.

“Mac!” Joe shouted. “What?”

“I need to leave, Joe. I need to get away from him. Can you watch him? Keep him safe?”

“Of course,” Joe said. “But what are you going to do?”

“Find a way to reverse the charge.”

~~~ 

Over four hours later MacLeod returned to the loft. 

Joe looked up from his post where he sat in vigilance next to the bed. He was pretty sure that Methos wasn’t going to wake up. Methos hadn’t even twitched the entire time he’d been watching him. He’d lain as if dead, and the only reason Joe knew he wasn’t was because every so often he had checked for a pulse and found a weak, fluttering, thready one beneath the man’s pallid skin.

“Joe?” Duncan asked, hovering at the furthest reaches of the loft.

“He’s alive,” Joe assured him. Barely, he thought.

MacLeod gave a tight nod and got down to business. He had brought with him a large suitcase, which he proceeded to unpack and assemble into a strange globe like device. He set it up next to the bed, a large metallic ball with a squashed bottom set atop a thick pole and all sprouting from a box containing unknown components, and continued checking wires until he was completely satisfied that he’d done it correctly. Then he roamed the loft, unplugging everything that could be unplugged.

“Mac, what is that thing?” Joe asked. It looked like something out of a bad B movie.

“van de Graaff generator,” MacLeod replied and retrieved what looked to be a rubber box. 

“Yeah? What’s it do and what are you going to do with it?” Joe asked suspiciously. He was beginning to not like this idea.

“It creates a charge on its surface.” He positioned the box right next to the bed, pushing away all the covers to clear a space around him and to reveal a quiescent Methos. “I’ll need you to turn it on for me. It’s just a switch. I’ll probably blow the circuits, so after you turn it on, you should go over there.” He indicated where his circuit breaker box for the loft was. “Turn everything off and then unplug the generator.”

“What are you going to be doing exactly?” 

“Know how you can shuffle across a rug and then touch a doorknob and get zapped? I’m going to zap Methos. Hopefully, it’ll disrupt whatever is going on between us. Maybe it’ll be enough.”

“Shit, Mac, why not just stick your finger in an electrical socket, while you’re at it.”

MacLeod shook his head. “No. I thought about that. I wouldn’t build up enough potential throughout all of me, it’d just pass through the least resistance.”

“Damn, Mac. This seems sort of experimental. Maybe there’s another way? This sounds dangerous.”

“There’s no time!” Mac replied, anguished. His eyes traveled to the pile of photos on the kitchen counter and his voice took on new resolve. “You can help or you can stay out of the way.”

“Okay, okay. Shit.” Joe shook his head. In for a penny, he thought. He stood ready by the switch.

MacLeod stepped onto the rubber block and placed one hand on the generator. “Okay.” Joe flipped the switch and then moved away to the circuit breaker box. He had a bad feeling about this. He watched as MacLeod’s long hair started to stand up on end, creating a fuzzy halo all around his head. It would have been comical to see the reserved Highlander like this if the situation weren’t so desperate. MacLeod let the charge build and more of his hair stood on end.

“Ready, Joe,” he warned. He paused for a beat and then reached out.

There was a hideous crack, not unlike a gun shot, but sharper somehow. Damn, Joe thought, he should have found earplugs. The fuses had all blown, as he suspected they would, but before resetting them he unplugged the silver globed generator. The smell of scorched skin and something smoke-like, but certainly not pleasant, reached him as he neared the bed. 

“Mac?”

MacLeod gave a low groan and slid to the floor, cradling one hand with the other. Joe could see blackened burn marks on Methos’ skin where Mac had touched him, scarring him severely. He could also see that it looked like Mac had burned his hand very badly, probably his fingertips had burst during the discharge.

“Mac?” he asked again.

Little blue zaps of Quickening zipped around his hand, healing the damage, until nothing was left except dark smudges to show that there had been an injury.

“Can’t have been good for your heart,” Joe grumbled.

“No,” Mac agreed and crawled to his feet. “But was it good for Methos?” He ran his hand around the burn marks on Methos’ upper shoulder where he had touched him, hesitated, and then retrieved the camera, snapping yet another photo in a long line of documentation. “What do you see, Joe?”

Joe sighed and reached out to feel for a pulse at Methos’ wrist. “He’s not healing. The burns are still there.” He counted silently to himself, moved his fingers and tried again. “He’s still alive, I think. At least, I think he has a pulse.”

“He still looks…fine.” MacLeod ran a hand down his face. “He just looks like he’s sleeping, Joe. Just sleeping. Healthy, blissful, normal sleep. Why can’t I see him?” He pounded a fist on the wall, anguish and helplessness mixing into physical reaction. He tore open the photo, looked at it, and let it flutter from his fingertips. “Something is missing. There’s still one more element that I need to--” he paused, then continued, “One more element. Of course.” He turned to Joe. “This isn’t just about electricity.”

“It isn’t?” Joe was nonplussed.

“No,” MacLeod replied.

~~~ 

An hour, one trip to the hardware store, and a bumpy ride up a neglected dirt road later and Joe was sure that Duncan MacLeod was grasping at desperate straws. But the man seemed very sure of what he was doing, and where Immortal matters were concerned, Joe was sure he liked it better as a spectator. This action was desperate and foolish, but it had to be tried. They couldn’t lose Methos without at least an attempt, and Joe tried to pull his own emotional shields together and focus on just getting the job done.

MacLeod had gently carried Methos out to the Thunderbird, the older immortal like a broken rag doll in the Highlander’s arms. Supplies had been purchased and were now being set up even as Joe watched. MacLeod was actually setting up the van de Graaff generator to the Thunderbird, which purred like the well maintained vehicle that it was. Some odd splicing had been done to wires and plugs that MacLeod had bought and now an extension line stretched from the car to the van de Graaff generator that had been set upon a shelf-like rock extension at the very edge of the quarry. 

The quarry had been abandoned a long time ago. Now, instead of a dizzying drop four hundred feet to a bare rocky bottom, the quarry had filled with brilliant blue-green water. “Algae,” MacLeod had grunted, preoccupied, when Joe had mentioned he was worried that the color meant something ominous.

“All that matters is that a very large portion of that water is rainwater, Joe. Rainwater.” MacLeod had continued his ministrations on the wires and toggles and other electrical bits he’d brought with him.

Now, it seemed everything was ready. MacLeod had run a quick test and it seemed that the Thunderbird did indeed have enough juice to power the generator, although they could only hope for long enough and well enough.

“Okay, Joe,” Mac had said, his face blank, and taken long strides to the back of the Thunderbird. He’d put the top down, and now he gathered to him the lank form resting in the back seat. He stroked Methos’ hair for a moment, pausing to kiss the forehead gingerly. The burn wounds to the shoulder hadn’t changed, hadn’t healed, and now MacLeod circled the damaged areas with his fingertips. He took in a shuddering breath.

“Mac, there are other ways,” Joe pleaded. How the hell was he going to drag Mac’s ass and Methos’ most likely dead body out of the quarry with a sheer granite rock face and a perpendicular drop? Yeah, that was a project he’d rather avoid.

“No,” Mac said, convinced. “There’s not.” He carried the limp form in his arms over to the edge of the quarry, placed another tender kiss to the temple, and then allowed the man to drop from his arms. 

Joe watched Methos fall down, down to the water, past the black powder scarred granite walls, land with a splash and then float there for a moment, placid face turned up, before silently sinking below the surface. The ripples from his fall bounced back and forth, spreading and criss-crossing, for a long time after he’d vanished into the depths.

A snippet of song came to mind -- oh my darling, oh my darling, you are lost and gone forever -- and Joe closed his eyes, wondering if horror, dread and insane misplaced humor could actually be mixed together without driving one mad. 

MacLeod was standing on his rubber box again, placed at the very edge of the quarry, he had only to step out and he would plunge down to the bottom, too. “Joe?” he asked, waiting. He held the generator in his hands, splayed fingers pressing on each side of the silver globe and holding it in place, slightly away from his body.

“Good luck, Mac,” Joe called from his safe perch.

As before, the noisy generator worked its mundane, laws of physics non-magic, and soon MacLeod’s hair was sticking straight up. He kept his hands there, as if glued to the generator, although this part was essentially harmless. It was when one stepped off the box, became grounded once again, that the charge would seek the path of least resistance, streaking away.

Mac stood there for a long time, gathering charge, and as he stood there, a grim and determined set to his jaw, Joe couldn’t help but wonder how far down Methos had gone. Had he reached the bottom yet or was he still falling, ever so slowly through the blue-green water. Were there currents? Could he be carried to and fro? The quarry wasn’t wide, perhaps as much as two football fields across, but it was deep.

Then, at last, it seemed to be enough and MacLeod, with a look of absolute resolve, took a bound forward, just enough for him to clear the edge, and he dropped into the waiting chasm below. MacLeod had taken the generator with him and now the extension cord snapped and recoiled back over the edge. He hit the water with a loud smack -- Joe couldn’t distinguish splash from electrical snap -- and was swallowed up, vanishing from sight.

~~~ 

Everything was dark and cold.

He was sightless and when he reached out with desperate fingers, he touched nothing. There was a terrible aching all throughout him, as if he had lost something, as if he would always be hungry all the rest of his days, and he wanted to cry out but there was no air to cry into, and there was nothing in his lungs to cry out with.

Aloneness engulfed him, took him into an embrace, and he sank even deeper through the blind world.

Except….

Suddenly the world was awash with the scent of damp wood, a hot street freshly drenched in a midday shower, the greenness of a grove of apple trees with each leaf holding beaded droplets, and over everything there was the feel of a charged atmosphere.

~~~ 

When he came to it was with the customary gasp and reflective lurch forward.

“About damn time. I’m sending you my cleaning bill and my repair bill.”

Duncan took in another lungful of air and oriented himself to the world. He was face up in the water, the sky so light a blue that he almost thought he’d lost his ability to see in color, and the wind was blowing across his face and body. He felt wretched. He turned over and found some footing, realizing that he was only in knee deep water, obviously on a rock shelf. 

Joe was in the water too, water soaking up his pant legs to the thigh, and he was looking very unhappy. He indicated with a head movement a still form, face down in the water, nearby. Then he awkwardly began to move towards the swampy area between the water and dry land.

Duncan lurched forward, grasping Methos and gently turning him over to face up. Anxiety and tension danced a minuet in his gut while he held the cold, stiff body. 

He remembered dropping Methos off the edge of the quarry and then jumping in himself, but he didn’t remember anything after that. He supposed that he had died on impact and that eventually they had both floated over to an edge. Joe must have come into the water to turn him face up, allowing him to revive. 

“Come on,” he whispered to the quiet, lifeless body in his arms. “Don’t you want to complain about being cold and wet?” He waited for an answer but none came, so he tried again. “If we’re going to be able to argue about this whole mess, you’re going to have to give me something to work with here.”

Methos gave a familiar gasp and opened his eyes, swiftly focusing on Duncan. “What--” he tried to speak, but his voice was barely more than the sound of a charcoal tracing being made.

“Shhh,” Duncan whispered. Relief was flooding his body, his limbs becoming weak and jelly-like just for a moment. He stroked his fingers down the side of Methos’ face, and realized that he wasn’t seeing the normal picture of health that he was used to. Methos looked waterlogged and bleached, and he felt too thin. His eyes held their normal luster, but they were set in a face that looked as chiseled as the stone around him. 

He was seeing reality again, and it was even more beautiful in its own terrible way than the illusion had ever been. 

“Mac?” Methos whispered hoarsely after being held for several seconds. “Do you think we can get out of the water yet? I’m freezing and I think I’m about to lose body parts.”

Duncan nodded, not trusting his voice, and helped Methos gain his balance. Then they both trudged up the shelf, through the swampy interstitial area, and onto dry ground where Joe was leaning against a boulder, waiting for them with a raised eyebrow.

“You forgot to bring towels,” Joe informed him. 

~~~ 

It was raining again.

Methos turned his head to the side and watched as water pelted the windows, streaming down in chaotic tangents. He slipped out of bed quietly and went to the window. The world outside had become diluted and blurry, all soft around the edges, the very image of a watercolor painting.

He glanced back at MacLeod, who was still sleeping deeply in the bed, although his brow had furrowed just the tiniest bit, as if he knew even in his slumbering state that his lover had snuck away. Methos pulled on some clothes, grabbed his trench coat, and headed for the roof, which was where MacLeod found him an hour later.

Methos had chosen an unprotected spot along the ledge and by the time MacLeod, looking rumpled and uncertain, had come to the roof, Methos was chilled to the bone and wet entirely through, but feeling much more settled. The rain was a friend to him, a protector. When it wasn’t fit out for man nor beast, then he knew that he could be out in it and that he would be left alone.

“Methos?” MacLeod asked, approaching slowly. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

Methos smiled at that. “I’ll live.”

MacLeod stopped just a foot short. “How are you feeling?” His voice was carefully neutral. 

Methos shrugged, not yet sure if he was ready for this conversation. He hadn’t allowed himself to realize the depth of what he felt for MacLeod, and he was reasonably sure that MacLeod would want to chastise or act indignant, or something that required a lot of energy. Methos had no energy left to give; just sitting on the ledge surrounded by the steady drizzle was enough for him, and too soothing for him to want to destroy the respite from the aching within him. “Come join me,” he finally said, and patted the spot next to him.

MacLeod nodded and swung his legs over the ledge, his hands pressed down against the stone to either side of him.

Methos could see that MacLeod was about to start talking, so he reached out and covered one of Mac’s hands with his own. He gave a slight shake of his head and it was enough, wonder of wonders, to keep Mac silent.

They sat there for a long time, the world blending together down below the soles of their shoes.

~~~ 

Duncan waited until he saw Methos give a nod of his head, the hair plastered down, and water dripping off every point and angle of his face. Then he knew he could start. “I was hoping we could talk about what happened.”

Methos sighed and looked up at the sky, tongue darting out for a moment to lick his rain wetted lips. “I know.” Methos looked down and seemed to very seriously consider the toes of his shoes. “I couldn’t let you die, the first time it happened. And after that – well – I couldn’t let you die.”

“But you were dying,” Duncan said, low and forceful, his voice rough. “You were killing yourself.” 

Methos looked him in the eye then. “A lesser consequence than watching you lose your head.”

“Oh, damn,” Duncan whispered and pulled Methos into an embrace, wishing that he’d known that every time he’d stepped up to a challenge, every time he’d placed himself between love and danger, that this had been happening. Methos felt so much more solid now than he had yesterday, his Quickening finally back where it was meant to be, and Duncan knew that it would only be a matter of time before Methos would be fully restored. He blinked away the remembered image of how Methos had looked as they’d crawled out of the quarry – too thin and faded, like a photograph left under a dripping faucet. 

It had been a long drive back from the quarry and Duncan had driven half of it with his attention on the man sleeping in the backseat, Joe half frightened that they’d get into an accident. When they’d finally returned to the loft neither of them had the energy to do anything other than quickly clean up and fall into bed, and when he’d woken this morning to find the bed empty beside him, he’d been torn between relief that Methos was under his own steam and sadness that he hadn’t been able to kiss Methos awake. 

“Please, Methos.” Duncan pleaded, “Don’t do that ever again. Whatever happens--” He stopped for a moment, not trusting his voice. “I couldn’t even see you. I couldn’t see what was happening.”

“I know,” Methos said softly. “I remember.” He settled into the embrace, resting his head against Duncan’s shoulder. “I was glad you couldn’t see, that you would still love me, make love to me. You’d have stopped, you’d have never touched me if you’d seen.”

Duncan swallowed and felt as if a stone were in the pit of his gut. “All I could see was how beautiful you were.” He rubbed a hand down Methos’ back. “Are.”

Methos shrugged a little, tightening up and then relaxing back into Duncan’s arms. “You saw the rest of the Quickening that you were missing. And the more you had, the more you wanted the rest.” He paused and his voice became even softer. “The more I wanted to give you the rest.” Duncan could feel a light tremor from the body in his arms, barely registering, and then it was gone. “Quickenings don’t usually parcel out. They’re usually lump sum.” The last was said with a wry tone of voice.

“Never again,” Duncan repeated. He doubted if he would be lucky enough reverse it again. “You keep what is yours and I will keep what is mine.”

“And never the twain shall meet?” Methos quipped naughtily, his head tipping down to hide a grin.

“I didn’t say that,” Duncan replied with mock indignation. “I’m sure we can work something out,” he said more softly. He pressed fingers under Methos’ jaw and tipped that rain soaked head back up so that he could seal the agreement. Methos tasted of lust and desire, of all things warm and bright, and Duncan decided that was just as it should be.


End file.
